


Backwards Boy

by BeneficialAddiction



Series: Boxers, Briefs, and Other Shorts [15]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alpha Phil Coulson, Alpha/Omega, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mating Rituals, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Omega Clint Barton, Role Reversal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-01
Updated: 2017-07-01
Packaged: 2018-11-21 19:18:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11363928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeneficialAddiction/pseuds/BeneficialAddiction
Summary: Clint's a backwards boy and he's never much cared.Being an aggressive omega, one that went after the Alpha of his choice instead of flaunting his heat scent around, waiting for one to win the right to his body over the others, it's not exactly the way things are done.Phil Coulson knows that Barton is... backwards.  Different, from the widely accepted norm. He's prepared to witness for the very first time an omega go after an Alpha, but what he's not prepared for is for that omega to come afterhim.





	Backwards Boy

He's the only one who ever gets close, and Clint takes a rather proprietary view of him almost immediately. Pretty little alpha, in an everyman kind of way, but Clint sees better than most, sees beneath the suit – the impeccable, well-tailored suit – to the compact, muscled, efficient man beneath. Before he even knows it, before he's even formally introduced himself Clint has decided that _this_ is the man he'll allow to bring him in. 

Stupid, because he only considers it to satiate his curiosity, to get even closer than he already has, up close and personal as it were. Everyone always said that curiosity killed the cat, but Clint was a Hawk down to his very bones, born for flight and high places, and had long ago stopped fearing the risk of an Alpha's tethers. 

Biology might drive those other omegas – prissy, high-and-mighty, going to their hands and knees in exchange for a place as a kept pet in an ivory tower, weak-willed and soft – but not Clint. 

No, where he came from, growing up omega, you either got tough or you got raped, you got strong or you got trapped. When your heat came around – once every five years if you were lucky, every three years if you weren't – if you wanted any say at all in which Alpha's knot you took, you make your choice damn well known to anybody and everybody that came sniffing around while you still had the chance. 

He knows he's different. 

He knows that it's not normal. 

Being an aggressive omega, one that went after the Alpha of his choice instead of flaunting his heat scent around, waiting for one to win the right to his body over the others, it's not exactly the way things are done. 

Clint's a backwards boy and he's never much cared. 

He's taken a few Alpha's in his life, when and as he chose, but it's never been serious, never been meant to be forever. They're a tool, nothing more, a scratch for his itch, but now here comes this Alpha, cool and calm and collected, doggedly determined and hot on his heels, and Clint is curious. 

More than curious, worse, he's _interested._

So he lets the Alpha catch him one night in Antioch, as the rain comes down icy cold and consuming. He isn't easy of course – Clint's never been easy – and what's the point if he just turns himself over? What does that give the Alpha a chance to prove? 

He's... _delighted_ when the man puts a bullet in his thigh and then immediately apologizes. That's probably all kinds of fucked up but the man seems more perturbed by the mess and regretful of the mundane bluntness of the action than anything else, and what a gift to be given by a stranger. Respect, equal treatment, not a kid glove in sight just because he's the omega and this man, this agent is an Alpha. Unruffled, inflappable, so much more attractive up close, he smells like ink and paper and coffee and cordite and Clint practically starts purring right there in a puddle of his own blood. As it is he flirts his ass off, even as the guy helps him to his feet and cuffs his hands behind his back, utterly professional and extremely, extremely careful as he collects Clint's bow from the rooftop where it had fallen from his hands. 

He starts falling in love right then and there. 

Over the next three and a half years Clint gets to know the guy, Phillip J Coulson, Agent of SHIELD, who becomes first his handler and then his friend. He's not perfect – who is – but he's perfect for Clint. They get along, they bicker and banter, and Coulson's never once lashed out at him, never struck him or shouted at him or treated him like he's less just because of his orientation. He sees Clint's talent, really sees it, and not just his aim. He... he _believes_ in Clint, teaches him and encourages him and makes him _better,_ and Clint knows, he _knows_ at his very core that Phil is the Alpha for him. 

Three and a half years. 

In all that time Phil's never pushed for anything, never asked for anything, never taken what Clint's so freely offered. At first he thinks it's simple disinterest, which of course only makes him all the more determined to convince the man otherwise, but he's not got the sharpest eyes in SHIELD for nothing. He sees the way other omegas ignore the older man, the way Alphas dismiss him. It's not disinterest, it's _disbelief,_ and it pisses Clint off to no end that this man, this fucking perfect man has been made to think that he isn't worth it, isn't interesting and reliable and smoking hot. 

He intends to change that. 

When he finally, _finally_ goes into preheat after three and a half years, he's prepared. 

Clint knows the moment he wakes up that it's hit. He's kicked the sheets to the bottom of his bunk, his body temperature elevated and his skin buzzing with sensitivity, and his hair is damp with sweat, a rich, heavy musk that permeates his little barracks like a cloud of sheer sex. There's a primal need in him to get out and prowl, to stalk the halls and _hunt,_ and there's a hunger in the pit of his belly that claws at him. 

Dressing quickly, he heads to the caf and loads up two trays with breakfast; scrambled eggs, thick slices of ham, vanilla yogurt with wheat germ – protein heavy food that will keep him going. Agents and staff alike are staring and it's everything Clint can do not to smirk. This is SHIELD, not some cheap alphabet soup - neither Clint nor any other omega will be forced into isolation or containment during their heat. Every individual in employ is expected to have the self-control to do their job in the presence of any and all pheromones and bodily fluids produced, and if they don't they're shown quickly to the door. Displays are allowed as long as they don't interfere with an active op or the chain of command, and the only rule is that everyone, _everyone_ respect the tap-out. 

Alphas may fight, but when one taps out the other walks away. 

Omegas may fuck, but when one taps out, that's it, done. 

Clint's never really experienced an environment like that before, and this being his first heat at SHIELD he's nearly high on the sheer freedom of it all. 

As he eats alone at a table along the wall, he can feel the eyes of several Alphas and more than one omega lingering on him, sense them sniffing in his direction and he tests the edge of his teeth against his spoon, grinning. 

His preheat usually lasts just under a week, before the real thing kicks in. 

He has work to do.

**AVAVA**

Phil Coulson has been continuously surprised by Clint Barton, ever since the man's file first came across his desk. Surprised by his ability, surprised by the shots he takes, surprised by the moral compass he retains in a world that should have beaten it out of him long ago.

He's surprised that he's finally able to catch up with the elusive Hawkeye one night in Antioch. He's surprised that, instead of turning on him when Phil shoots him in the thigh, the young man starts rumbling and rubbing himself all along Phil's side like a cat, smirking and batting his eyelashes. He's surprised that the stocky, strong, fiercely clever fighter is an omega, not an Alpha or even a beta. 

He's _not_ surprised that Clint does well in SHIELD. Having friends, people he can rely on does wonders for the young man, as does having regular access to good food and medical care. He grows, learns, flourishes, takes any and every opportunity to better himself, and Phil is _proud_ of him. 

The omega also flirts. This is another thing that surprises Phil, at least at first. He doesn't expect anything of him, of course he doesn't. SHIELD may not have any frat regs, but Phil has always been extremely conscientious of the power his authority holds over his assets. He ignores the man's advances at first, startled by his attentions, and later, when he realizes that flirtation is by-and-large a part of who Clint is, only responds with the driest of remarks. 

He's stunned when this doesn't ever seem to discourage the man. Phil has never been the object of any omega's attention before, not outside of silly high school flings, and yet, one morning in mid-March, Barton comes stomping into his office wearing unlaced combat boots and a cloud of musk that hits him like a Mac truck and plants his hands flat on Phil's desk, leaning forward like he wants to pounce. 

"My heat's gonna hit, next four days or so." 

"And you're telling me this because?" 

Phil shoots for calm, flat, casual, but since he swallows hard and licks his lips before he gets the words out he thinks he misses by a mile. Clint stares at him hard, kaleidoscope eyes sharp and intense, searching, and grins. 

"Because you need to be ready." 

And then he's gone. 

Phil sits back in his desk chair, stares at the closed door and wills his heart to stop pounding. He isn't even sure when it had kicked up, isn't sure what all the fuss is about. Barton is just warning him as his handler right? He knows what he's about to face, about to see. Clint had warned him when he'd first come on, had told him that he wasn't like other omegas. Phil had never gotten the entire story, but he'd been given enough hints that he could fill in the blanks. 

He knows Barton is... backwards. Different, from the widely accepted norm. Phil is prepared to witness for the very first time an omega go after an Alpha, but what he's not prepared for is for that omega to come after _him._

At first it's nothing much. Just rumblings, gossip, stories about how that cocky bastard Barton is walking around sexing up the place and provoking the Alphas into a frenzy, working them up and then demanding they fight him instead of each other. This isn't terribly shocking, at least to Phil – Barton's always been aggressive, straightforward, proud of his physique and his abilities on the sparring mats. He's tempted to go down to the gym and watch but the way his slacks tent at the thought is more than enough of a reminder why doing so would be a terrible idea. 

He doesn't even catch a glimpse of Clint those first two days. He refuses to follow the omega on the security cams but it's nearly impossible to avoid the murmured gossip in the halls and the cafeteria so he doesn't try. He doesn't know how or when Barton manages it, but it seems that any time he steps out for even a moment the omega is sneaking into his office, because when he returns the man's scent lingers heavy in the air. It's thick and heady, sex and a deep, rich fondness that is nothing new at all. The smell of it begins to permeate his suits and cling to his skin, and although he doesn't understand it, it makes Phil shiver to think that he's being marked. 

He's not the only one who notices, and that part of it kind of makes him sick. 

No one has ever shown interest in him before. This had never particularly bothered him – he worked hard to stay below the radar – but he couldn't deny that there were times that he'd been lonely, times that he'd felt the pangs of missing out on a relationship. On those few occasions he'd made an Alpha display in an effort to attract a mate he'd been ignored, and the emotional fallout, the damage to his pride on those occasions was more than enough to convince him that it wasn't worth the attempt. 

Now that Barton's started making a scene, suddenly other agents, men and women who have known him for years have suddenly started to sit up and take notice. Alphas snarl in the hallways and omegas preen, start sniffing around his door, junior and senior agents alike despite having never shown a lick of interest before. He feels like some new fad candy – something that's been sitting behind the counter for months but has only finally attracted some attention because a young pop-sugar princess was caught sucking on him – and he... 

He's taken the metaphor too far. 

He doesn’t know what Barton sees in him anyway, doesn't know how he himself... 

And that's just a flat out lie. 

He's incredibly attracted to Barton, has been since the day he'd brought him in. 

If he'd thought the interest was returned, that Barton really and truly wanted a relationship with him he would have... 

But it's too late now. 

Alphas walk past him in the hallways with broken noses and black eyes, arms in slings, glaring fit to kill, and omegas giggle and bat their eyelashes and Phil doesn't even blink, doesn't spare any of them an ounce of interest in return. 

His head is full of only one man, one omega, thick with his scent like summer carnival days, spun sugar and hay and green grass, roasting peanuts. 

On the third day the gifts start arriving. 

Quivering junior agents clutching stacks of overdue paperwork, completed, copied, and collated. 

A repairman who jumps so hard he nearly hits the ceiling when Phil comes down for a cup of coffee from his favorite, finicky machine in the third floor senior lounge that suddenly, miraculously works. 

A requisitions form for a new tie, two thousand dollars to replace one from his own collection, signed off on by wardrobe after lingering in their inbox for months. 

Phil's favorite Boston cream pie on the wrong day, when he's only ever seen Clint manage to wheedle extra dessert from SHIELD's curmudgeonly old lunch ladies. 

He's stunned by how well he's handling this whole thing, as backwards as it is, being wooed instead of doing the wooing, but it's getting harder and harder to take as the days go by and Clint's scent gets thicker and stronger and hotter in his nose. 

Harder, as in, _literally_ harder. 

He's actually allowing himself that incredibly juvenile pun. 

He doesn't know what possesses him to dress down on Friday, four days since Clint had confronted him in his office, since he'd last seen the man. He refuses to acknowledge the fact that he's been keeping count of the days, marking them down, tracking the sheer ripeness of the sex pheromones Clint's littering around his office and through the hallways like breadcrumbs. He garners more than a few looks in his faded jeans and the worn-in jump boots he wears on field ops, a long-sleeved thermal Henley. He can feels eyes on him but it's more than just that, it's the feeling of being stalked as he makes his way through the hallways toward his office, the thin hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. 

It's _Clint's_ eyes that are following him, the only ones that matter. 

It's a familiar sensation and an all-together new one, being watched by the sniper as familiar as anything else in this line of work after three and a half years. He trusts the man implicitly, feels protected under his gaze, and only now does the significance of that really register. 

Clint had once called himself a backwards boy – Phil feels that now – but he finds that he isn't bothered. 

He feels no urge to tip the scales, to rewrite this story and take back a more traditional Alpha role. 

In fact, he finds that he's very much enjoying basking in this glow, in the attention that Clint lavishes on him like he's someone worth fighting for. 

He's growing impatient though. 

He should really know well enough by now to be careful what he wishes for. 

One office block over from his own, Phil feels his spine stiffen as Agent Neely peels himself off from the wall and falls into step beside him, having very clearly been waiting. Phil ignores him – he's the senior agent who would normally have no time or interest in Neely, and he suspects that the man is here on a mission that is more personal than professional judging by the pheromones the man is throwing around like a blunt instrument. The other Alpha bristles at the dismissal and growls low in his throat, sharpens his step as they round the corner and come up on Phil's office door. There are other agents in the hall, Sitwell and Maria Hill among them, but this doesn't seem to deter Neely, and as Phil reaches out to unlock his office door, the man clamps his hand down hard over Phil's wrist. 

"I'm not stupid," he hisses, his grip tight. "I know what Barton's doing. He's holding out for _you,_ whyever the hell that is. The others still haven't figured it out but I'm _not_ stupid." 

Phil arches an eyebrow. 

On the contrary, he thinks Neely is exceptionally stupid. There's no way the other Alphas haven't figured out what's going on, not with the way Clint's been layering his scent up heavier and heavier all around him like an expensive, sexy cologne. No, they're the smart ones, because not a one of them has dared to challenge Phil for the right to the omega. Regardless of what else he is, he's an excellent fighter, skilled, quick, and dirty. They know _better_ than to challenge him. 

"I have absolutely no control over what Agent Barton does Neely," he replies in his cold, flat, handler's tone. "Hell, everyone in SHIELD knows that by now." 

With his free hand, Phil pushes open his office door, unsurprised to find Clint standing just inside, his feet spread in a fighting stance, eyes blazing. 

"Besides, I think he's made it clear that that choice is _his_ to make." 

Neely immediately goes pale and wide-eyed, drops Phil's wrist like a firebrand. He takes two stumbling steps backwards before shoring up his stance, leaning forward on the balls of his feet, fists clenched, and Clint laughs, a low, dark, rough sound that goes straight to Phil's cock. 

The fight itself is short-lived. 

Clint lunges, teeth bared in a grin that's half aggression, half amusement. He goes low as Neely goes high, ducks his wild swing and comes up hard putting his shoulder into the other man's stomach. They stagger across the hallway to crash into the wall opposite, snarling and swinging, snapping teeth, and every damn person in hearing distance is starting to crowd up, to watch. 

Phil doesn't give a damn. 

He leans his shoulders back against the door frame, feet kicked out in front of him, legs spread, dick rock hard in his jeans as he watches, his breath coming fast and shallow, Clint's scent thick and sweet on his tongue. His heart is hammering and he doesn't think he's ever lusted after someone as much as he does in this moment, watching this backwards omega thrash an Alpha twice his size for him, efficiently and easy as you please. 

He _knows_ he's never been so in love. 

He doesn't have long to dwell in it – Clint ends the fight by flipping Neely over his shoulder and smashing him onto his back, one heavy boot putting pressure on his clavicle until he slaps the floor in defeat. He's slow to let him up, rumbling and snarling, pressing in on the other agent until he tucks tail and slinks away, then he turns on Phil with flashing eyes and all the intent of a predator toward its prey. 

Calm sweeps through him, certainty, and Phil very slowly reaches out and pulls his office door closed, the snick of the lock loud in the silence of the hallway. Clint's gaze never once strays from his as he watches with all the focus of the world's greatest marksman, and when Phil takes one deliberate, measured step back a sharp, wicked grin full of all kinds of dirty promises spreads across his face. 

Phil smiles back, turns, and bolts, his omega hot on his heels.


End file.
